Remnants of Shadows
by Nargothrond
Summary: After the death of the elvenqueen, unrest began spreading through Mirkwood; the greatest forest of the Northern world. As the children of Thranduil struggle to deal with the death of their mother, far away in distant Harad another struggles to deal with his brutal past and the uncertain future that lies ahead. *NO LONGER ON HIATUS*
1. When The Eyes See Lies

**DISCLAIMER: Obviously I do not claim to own the Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and any recognizable character. If I did, then you know to call the mental asylum. This is Tolkien's playground, and I'm just having fun with the equipment. I do, however, own the OCs. *cuddles them protectively***

 **Also, I am only putting this disclaimer in once. Because this site can be a pain in the rear and I don't want to tempt fate. No flames for this please. *hides behind boulder***

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 **CHAPTER ONE**

When The Eyes See Lies

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Indion, a councillor for the king of the woodland realm, stepped into the library carrying a cup of wine in one hand and a report in the other. All he had was a little work left to do, and then the rest of the day to spend at leisure, which he was looking forward to. Some Sindar were known to gather in a private room to share a good bottle of Dorwinion wine. And no tree-hugging Silvans among them. Indion was new to the palace and already the large population of Silvan elves was grating on his nerves.

 _You see, my son. The Silvans are considered equals even though it was us who brought them together and made them 'so'. A Silvan cares nothing for politics or ruling; only for their trees and flowers. But they are also dangerous and untrustworthy. Do not fall for their merry games or you will find yourself with a dagger in your back._

 _But what about King Thranduil?_ Young Indion asked. _He married a Silvan._

 _The marriage between our king and this forest maiden was advantageous in that it united them to our cause. The queen is beloved by her people. Still, the king would have done better wedding one of his own instead of chasing after fey, barefooted maidens. As for his heirs… their royal blood is tainted by the carelessness of their father. But power can change hands, my son. It just takes time and patience…_

And so a deep mistrust of Silvans was implanted in the young elf's mind from an early age, so that whenever he saw his Sindar kin mingling freely with the wood-folk, he despised them for their weakness and short sight. One day the king would see reason and things would change. Those things just took… time.

The library was a magnificent place. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined one half of the great room, the contents of their shelves exuding the familiar scent of ink, aged parchment and leather. The dark wood, of which they were all built, was highly lacquered and daily polished to a brilliant sheen. Two wide ladders set into tracks allowed easy access to those volumes beyond arm's reach. Freestanding bookcases marched across the floor like dark and bright soldiers on parade. Each scroll, book, and manuscript as sorted and indexed in a precise manner adopted from the ancient libraries at Doriath before its ruin..

In the central part of the room stood four heavy tables with straight-backed chairs, and two small desks. Centered on two of the tables were painted porcelain jars containing the tools the scholars used in their repair and maintenance of the library's precious content. Impressive bronze chandeliers hung majestically from the curved and painted ceiling, their polished scrolled arms the home of numerous candles that provided plenty of light for work and reading.

The wood gleamed with polish and the books free of dust motes. The tall elegant windows were open; allowing warm summer, fresh breezes and cheerful birdsong to drift in. Sunlight brightened the entire room and created warm patterns on the polished floor.

Indion placed his tea down on one of the tables with a pleased smile - he had the entire room to himself - and nearly had a heart attack.

Facing one of the windows was a male elf; tall and lithe, dressed in dark gray robes. His long midnight black hair spilled down his shoulders to his lower back in a thick curtain, shorter uneven strands curling slightly about his handsome face. There was no doubt in Indion's mind as to who this elf was; none other than the Crown Prince himself.

His head turned slightly at the surprised choke of the young councilor. "Lord Indion." he greeted with a firm nod.

The other elf recovered from his surprise and bowed respectfully, privately resenting every moment though he made an effort to hide his thoughts. It would never do to lose any chance of gaining a high position in the court by insulting the royalty. "Prince Anárion," he said. "I didn't realize you were in here."

"My apologies for startling you, Indion." the crown prince inclined his head with a small smile. His eyes were startlingly dark blue - as blue as a deep midsummer sea, they said, and his secret, wistful smile had melted many a maiden's heart. It was all Indion's sister could talk about - the princes _this_ , the princes _that_. She didn't listen to their father like he did.

 _You were right, Adar._ He thought. _We're going to be overrun by Silvans and half-breeds._ He noticed how one of the prince's hands rested firmly on the window ledge, allowing him to take his weight off of his right leg. Even as he shifted slightly it was obvious that he favored it, preferring to keep all this weight on his left side.

"I heard you are new to the court for training." the crown prince remarked casually.

Indion frowned, angry at being referred to as a protege. Then he remembered in whose presence he was and quickly smiled. "I am."

"It is rare that one so young is allowed to join the meetings."

Indion bristled. "I have been trained in politics since I was born," he replied angrily. "My father is Sindar and a respected court advisor. I am to take his place eventually." _And you,_ he gloated, _are nothing but a cripple trying to maintain your place as Crown Prince._

"Peace; I meant no offense." the prince raised his hand in a calming gesture. A small wince of pain crossed his features but vanished as swiftly as it had come.

Indion watched impassively; still seething. He recalled everything he had ever heard about this ellon… There were the tales about his strange visions; the gift of foresight, as if he was so blessed as the Lady Galadriel. Indion didn't know if they were true or not, and it was a subject the palace elves seemed to like to avoid and keep private as blinded by loyalty and adoration as they were. When he finally found a servant willing to talk, she swore that she had caught a glimpse of the prince during one of his _fits_ and heard his desperate screams. What kind of a future ruler was that?

And then there was Prince Legolas. In all appearance the second son was a Sindar; golden haired, pale eyed, as fierce a warrior as a wildcat. Indion had admired him at first. But at his heart Legolas was one of the wood-folk, with a love for sitting in trees. That had brought Indion's admiration to a screeching halt. As for Princess Finduilas… Indion hadn't met her yet but he had seen her. That alone was enough to make him never wish to have to speak with her.

All this went through the ellon's head, so he missed how the aforementioned cripple was watching him carefully, dark eyes reading the other elf's face with a warrior's scrutiny. The prince may have been forced to forsake that life, but his skills were nonetheless keen. At last the prince looked back toward the window. "The trees sing joyfully today," he spoke softly to himself as if the young councilor wasn't there. "Their song is deep and pulses through the forest like a heartbeat."

"Excuse me, your highness, but I have work to attend to." Indion bowed again and, picking up his things, retreated out of the library. Once away, he finally allowed his lower lip to curl in disgust. But what else could one expect from an elf of mixed blood? _Yes father,_ he thought, _some day things will be different and I will be there to see it happen._

 ** _..._**

Anárion listened until the ellon's footsteps receded down the outside corridor and faded away. He breathed out sharply and turned back around, leaning against the window ledge and running his fingers through his long dark hair.

"That one looks like trouble." A deep voice said.

A warrior materialized out of the shadows in the corner where he had been concealed and watching the entire exchange. He was so alike in form and face to Anárion that the two elves could be mistaken for brothers. But if one looked closely they would see how the warrior's features were slightly more angular, his shoulders broader, and his voice deeper.

"Aye, he despises me. I could see it in his eyes. And knowing Lord Morhir, his opinion on Silvans must be less than favorable." the crown prince grimaced.

Saegolas' expression grew dark. The quiet elf took any slight to his people as seriously as he took his duty as a warrior of the woodland realm. "Something should be done about Lord Morhir and his followers before they become more of a threat." he said.

"They are blinded by prejudice and lies."

"They cannot be trusted!"

"I know. And yet we cannot accuse Morhir of spreading these rumors, for he would deny having anything to do with it. My father trusts him. At least to a certain extent." Anárion let go of the ledge, his face twisting into a grimace as sharp spikes of pain shot up his leg. It was paining him more so than usual. He hobbled over to the table and sat down wearily. "At least there are not so many as we originally thought."

"Numbers can grow in seconds, _ernil nin_." Saegolas replied grimly. "Especially under one such as Morhir."

"True." Anárion agreed. "But many more are loyal to my mother."

"Loyalties can change."

Anárion sighed. " _Mellon nin_ , you are making it very difficult to see the bright side of a grim situation and its hardly helpful," the crown prince said, half in seriousness, half in amusement. "This is a battle that cannot be won by brute force with arrows and swords. No; this will require much more finesse, and knowing who can be bribed."

"But it might someday." Saegolas seated himself on a chair nearby, leaning back and laying his forearms on the armrests. "Do you intend to approach the advisors about this?"

"Not until we know who can be trusted, and who is Morgoth-spawn. I have a strong feeling that there is more reason to Lord Morhir's schemes than getting rid of the Silvans. However much you and I would like to throw his arrogant carcass into the dungeons, that will have to wait until we have suitable evidence for our case." Anárion removed a sheet of parchment and picked up a quill pen. Dipping it in an inkwell, he addressed it to one of Mirkwood's captains and started to write in neat, flowing script. When he was finished he folded the parchment, sealed it with a glob of red wax, and stood up.

He handed it to Saegolas, who rose also. "Take this to Captain Naeros. It's the report he asked for. He can read it out to the-"

His vision went black.

Silence.

 _It was so deep in the forest of green and gold, where trees extended their leafy branches laden with thick foliage up to the heavens, as sunlight filtered through the leaves and dappled the ground in dancing patterns of warmth when the breeze sometimes whispered through the boughs._

 _It seemed so real… yet so dreamlike… but he knew this was no dream. The peacefulness was a mask. At first glance it appeared to be so calm, but a feeling much deeper than what the eyes could see warned of imminent danger._

 _Where the trees parted and opened to a cozy glade a doe stood beside the murmuring stream, her muzzle pushing against the ground as she nibbled delicate blades of grass. A distant sound caused her head to raise and her stance to become alert. Soft black eyes scanned the surrounding wood. Then, in one graceful leap, she bounded away in a streak of tawny brown and was lost to the arms of the green wood._

 _Two horses broke through the same glade, charging nearly neck to neck. One was a dappled gray and the other black with white markings on it's back, and both were ridden by beings garbed in the same colors of the forest. The horses wore neither saddles nor bridles but that did nothing to hinder the balance of their elvish riders. One was female and red-haired, limitless joy and wisdom shining her her eyes. The other was no less noble; tall, proud and golden-haired._

 _They rode their horses side by side. Neck-to-neck; stride-for-stride. Unrestrained laughter echoed and every tree welcomed their presence as they flashed by, hailing the king and queen of the greenwood. The elves guided their mounts along a deep creek, following a beaten path that led down a short, steep hill. The creek poured off of the hill and fell in graceful miniature waterfall into a silvery pool. It was here that the elves dismounted and drew close together, gazing upon the cheerful waters while the sun cast a golden glow on the quiet scene._

 _But then something changed, and the air grew cold and unwelcoming. A foul wind blew from the south, whipping the elves' hair into their eyes and dragging at their clothes like invisible clawed hands. The horses snorted nervously and tossed their heads, dancing back and forth. The sun no longer shone and the trees no longer rejoiced. All grew strangely silent except for the wind. The scenes blurred and, for a moment, nothing made sense._

 _And then, chaos erupted._

 _Arrows shot out from the woods like a hailstorm. The horses shrieked and reared as the elves gave a cry of alarm. Orcs poured into the clearing, their mad howls of bloodlust renting the air. Swords flashed and black blood spilled upon the ground. The two elves fought back-to-back in a deadly dance of death with no mercy for their enemies. But the orcs shrieked and pressed forward, forcing the elves to separate. One group drove the golden-haired elf back away from the elleth until he was cornered by the rocky hill. The arrows ceased but the fighting continued. Red blood now mingled with orcish as a deep gash was inflicted in the ellon's side._

 _They were now fighting for their lives, it seemed. Blades struck, parried, and cut into flesh like a knife through butter. The elleth then cried out as she was overwhelmed, blood pouring from a arrow in her shoulder. The orcs screamed with victory and rushed as the warrior fought madly to reach the elleth's side even as he was driven farther and farther away._

 _The elleth's sword was struck from her hands. The orcs pounced, claws tearing at her clothes and hair and bringing her to the ground. Panic and fear for what would happen to her husband drove her on. She kicked as blows were landed on her body and fresh blood spilled onto the grass. Pain turned her vision to red and she knew she was beaten. A scream of terror for the fate of her loved one tore from her lips._

" _Thranduil-!"_

"Anárion!"

The crown prince came to with a gasp, claws of fiery agony ripping through his pounding head. A wave of dizziness sent the world spinning and he grabbed the table for support. He faintly heard a crash and tinkling of porcelain shards as they skittered across the floor.

His eyes were open but all Anárion could see was darkness. Always darkness; so deep and black. Then splashes of color and blinding light flooded into the inky black as image after image flashed before him. Emotions and thoughts became like a tangled web, and his ragged breaths matched the throbbing pulse of his heart that appeared to want to beat it's way out of his chest. All he could feel was an overwhelming sense of alarm.

Saegolas knelt beside the crown prince, trying to calm the elf's frantic struggles. Anárion's pupils were dilated as if he were in a lightless room, despite how bright the library was. Saegolas held his friend's arm and kept a steady stream of Sindarin flowing off of his tongue. Anárion didn't notice.

The library door was flung open. Saegolas looked up with a curse, intending on sending the unfortunate interrupter running for his life, but the harsh words died on his lips when he realized it was Legolas standing there. The golden-haired archer took one look at his shaking brother and went for the healer.

The crown prince felt detached; floating without anchor. Unreachable, and unable to reach. His mouth was opened and he was forced to swallow something bitter tasting.

Darkness again.

 _No, no, no, no, NO!_

Beads of sweat slipped down Anárion's face and a low moan of physical pain and mental anguish escaped his lips, along with feverish murmurings both in elvish and the tongue of Men. _This is real, this is not a dream. They're coming… they're coming…_

A cool hand stroked through his long locks while a cool, wet cloth daubed across Anárion's hot brow. Elvish words floated in the air and helped to calm his frenzied mind, and allow him to be able to form coherent thoughts and force his uncooperative vocal cords and burning lips to produce and control the sounds necessary to make words.

" _Sh, brother. Do not try to speak yet."_ Legolas said. Light glinted off of his golden hair and turned Anárion's vision fuzzy.

Anárion caught his breath, which were ragged and uneven. Although he could hear other voices gabbling nonsense he wasn't aware if other beings were present in the room. "So many… so many… you must return..." he whispered.

" _Legolas, Saegolas! What's going on?_ "

" _I heard a cry… Saegolas what… Galadhindil offer... Try a stronger draught… little else she can do for him._ " Legolas' voice drifted in and out.

A red haired elleth appeared in his blurry line of sight, her young face troubled and eyes fixed on the writhing ellon. " _Muindor, calm down._ " She said, lightly touching his hot cheek. " _It's us... family. Please… going to hurt you! We're… we're here..._ "

" _Finduilas, where have Ada and Nana gone?_ "

" _They rode… of the palace over… hour ago…. Saw them leave… to spend some time together since Ada has been too occupied otherwise of late._ "

" _Are they being escorted?_ " Legolas demanded.

Finduilas shook her head. " _No, well, yes; just with two guards; Barthaudh and Vanion. They are just riding to the waterfall glade. No orcs or spiders have been there for centuries. They're safe._ "

Anárion drew in a flaming breath and forced words past his leaden lips. "Legolas…" Anárion's fevered gaze sought out his golden-haired brother. " _Henion! E ú-'ar hired râd. Heniach nin, glamhoth anglennol!_ I understand! He is not able to find a way. Do you understand me, orcs are coming!"

Finduilas' face transformed into an expression of terror.

"They're coming… go… _go!_ " Anárion's voice broke. He shuddered as the last remnants of the vision slipped away into darkness and unconsciousness enveloped his mind once more. He went limp, body supported by Saegolas.

For several heartbeats no one spoke.

" _Your highnesses, the prince is not in his right mind. It's simply the conjuring illusions of his imagination combined with feelings of fear-_ " one of the healers began reasonably. He was interrupted by Legolas. The prince's monotonous voice was flat, but it sent shivers up and down the spines of all present to hear.

" _No. It's not._ "

Legolas spun around and raced out of the door with Finduilas close at his heels.

 ** _..._**

"Come, Thranduil; you're as slow as your advisors today!" The elvenqueen's sweet voice called gaily from atop her dappled gray mount.

Thranduil had paused to scan the woods surrounding them. The air was bright and clean and the earth beneath was loamy. He glanced over and saw his wife smiling at him over her shoulder, blue eyes dancing with mirth. Her long, wavy red hair was bound back in a braid except for strands that pulled loose and rippled around her fair face.

"Are you well, my lord? Do you need me to fetch the queen back?"

Thranduil glanced up at the graceful elf balancing on a tree branch above that looked hardly able to support his weight. He wore the mottled green and brown garb of a warrior, his dark hair pulled away from his face in the appropriate braids, and armed with a short sword at his waist and quiver full of arrows on his back.

"No, Vanion," the king said flatly. "I don't."

Vanion looked like he was barely suppressing a smile. "The woods are full of animals, and the horses are in high spirits. What is it going to be today, my lord, if I may ask?"

"The queen and I will be traveling toward her waterfall in some manner of direction." Thranduil replied, glancing over to where his wife waited. "Though I cannot say which."

The guard nodded. "I will alert Barthaudh. And, your majesty," he paused then smiled at the elvenking. "We will be watching carefully for any signs of danger, so we will be near you at all times. _All_ times," he stressed.

Thranduil just looked at him dryly. "I will keep that in mind."

The elf winked and disappeared into the trees to alert his companion. Thranduil watched him go with a hint of amusement. Vanion was a proven warrior; assigned as Éllawen's bodyguard since before the Last Alliance, and he served the royal family faithfully for centuries. Thranduil did not pick his family's bodyguards lightly, and never had he been disappointed in his choices. There were few elves that Thranduil trusted more.

"Thranduil?"

"Coming, _meleth nin_." Thranduil responded, nudging his horse and urging it on faster. The stallion responded eagerly and plunged forward after the queen's mount. A smile rose on the king's normally stern features. He wondered how long it had been since he and Éllawen had spent quality time together that wasn't formal? Forever, it felt like. Thranduil knew perfectly well how his duties to the woodland realm allowed little time to spare for himself, but he could never shake the feeling that he was neglecting his family.

The elvenqueen's laughter rang like silver bells. Birds stirred in the branches of the trees and peeked out at the couple from the safety of the leafy boughs. The very trees themselves seemed to shiver with delight at the presence of the two elves.

"Are you coming or not?" Éllawen called again. "We elves may be immortal, but that doesn't mean we enjoy waiting."

Thranduil snapped out of his reverie, realizing that he had once again slowed to a walk."Forgive me," he said. "I was thinking."

"That is your problem, Thranduil; you think and worry too much," Éllawen stroked her mount's neck. "There are times when you just need to forget your responsibilities and learn how to live again."

"For you, my love, I would learn how to fly or forge a star with my bare hands." Thranduil paused and leaned over to lightly kiss her cheek, his silvery-blue eyes glowing with love.

The elvenqueen gave a sly smile. "Catch me if you can, then, O mighty king."

Her mare leaped into motion and raced away into the woods. Thranduil wasted no time and was in pursuit. A startled doe sprang away. The forest blurred around him and the life song thrummed through his entire body. The king was a Sindar, but he was in tune with the song of the trees none the less.

Éllawen's laughter urged him on. She led him on a merry chase down a beaten path toward her favorite spot; where the creek turned into a waterfall and splashed down into a pool. It was the spot they had met so long ago, when he was a prince and she the daughter of a Silvan village leader. When their children were younger Éllawen would bring them here to play.

The chase ended at the waterfall and Thranduil dismounted, catching Éllawen in his arms and spinning together around and around. At last, breathless, they looped arms and strolled around the glade, revelling in the peacefulness.

Dimples appeared in Éllawen's cheeks as she smiled. "You caught up with me at the last stretch. I do believe your chasing skills have improved greatly since our last race, my lord."

"With you, I've had plenty of practice. You made everything difficult from the very start." Thranduil drew in a deep breath of the fresh air and sighed with contentment.

They wandered in silence for a moment, simply enjoying one another's company. Their feet left no imprints in the springy moss that carpeted much of the ground. The grass was rich and soft, dotted with sweet smelling wildflowers. The pool was deep and overshadowed by an alcove from which the waterfall cheerily poured off of. The water was so clear that Thranduil could see to the very bottom where the stones were a myriad of colors - red, black, blue, green, and gray.

"It's as lovely here as I remember," the elvenqueen said softly, laying her hand on the bark of a tree. It shivered beneath her touch. She gazed into the depths of the pool, her blue eyes reflecting the light that danced along the ripples. "Do you remember when we met, Thranduil?"

"Aye; very well. I can never forget them, nor will I ever wish to."

Their meeting was one of his most cherished memories. Granted; it had been slightly… unorthodox. Thranduil was a bold young ellon, and Éllawen a feisty elleth with a low tolerance for arrogant princes. Sardonic remarks had been exchanged, and, strangely, affection at the same. It took them awhile to work out their differences and realize their love for one another. But however much of a rocky path, their courting time were some of the happiest years of his life and now precious memories.

Thranduil glanced at his wife sitting beside him on the springy grass. She was turning something over in her hands, her lovely face soft and thoughtful. Thranduil recognized what she held. It was a dagger; lightweight as a feather, with tiny white gems laid into the hilt. The blade was thin and sharp, forged out of mithril by elven-smiths in Doriath before it fell. It glittered like pale ice in the sunlight which reflected off of the runes engraved down the length of the blade.

 _Le Túnagor Mabo i morn_ _An i síla le nín salaen_

"Many are the enemies that have tasted it's sting," she said with quiet pride. "It has never failed me. Did you know that it taught Legolas how to read?"

"Really." the elvenking smiled. He had heard this story before but never tired hearing tales of his children.

"Mm hm." Éllawen leaned luxuriously against his strong shoulders. "He was always fascinated with the inscription. One day while he was looking at it and reciting, he suddenly discovered how the words he spoke and the letters written on the blade matched up. He found an empty parchment and wrote his first word in big, messy scrawls: _Túnagor_."

Thranduil nodded. "Our Greenleaf is a smart elfling."

"An elfling no longer, but he stands as one of the greatest warriors and sons of the mightiest king this forest has ever known," she said, playing with the mithril clasp on his cloak.

He sighed. "How can I forget they are children no longer? I can see the blood of warriors flows through their veins. And if I can ever live up to a third of my father's legacy, I would count myself among the blessed." Even thinking of Oropher was still painful. "The people loved him. Ai, he was truly king of Greenwood the Great."

"But you are not your father, Thranduil; and this realm could not have survived without your leadership." she reminded him gently. "You built us up and gave us hope and light in the darkness when we thought we had nothing left but grief and pain. If the people don't love you, then I am not an elf."

Thranduil shook his head and drew her closer. "I'm not worried about who is greater, or more loved, or if the esteemed Lord Elrond is having tea with his afternoon repaste," he said, eyes twinkling with merriment. "All that matters right now is if my queen is enjoying herself."

"Oh, _very_ much." Éllawen reassured him, shaking her head so that more hair pulled loose and curled about her radiant fair. She was not so willing to let the subject of Peredhel go. "Speaking of Lord Elrond, how has he fared this last century? Has Arwen visited frequently? Tell me, are her brothers well?"

"Very; if Glorfindel's reports and Elladan's letters hold true." Thranduil replied, only slightly annoyed at the lord of Imladris being dragged into the conversation. The two elven lords rarely saw eye-to-eye on… well… anything, but Éllawen was close friends with Celebrian and like a foster mother to Arwen Undómiel after Celebrian sailed.

Éllawen raised her eyebrows. "So, you are the one reading Finduilas' letters? She thought it was Anárion or Legolas, or both. They are so protective of her it drives her rather mad. She would be dismayed to find out that she has, not one, but three readers.. I remember my own father would do the same when you wrote to me, for my brothers wouldn't dare for fear of my wrath. Except for Daugion. Don't let her catch you,, or else the entire palace will be hearing about the indignancy of it for the next five hundred years."

So, Finduilas had noticed. In all honesty, Thranduil was not surprised. The young elleth was perceptive, like her mother. She would realize someone had carefully opened her letters in such a way that a careless glance would not notice. Doubtlessly she was properly outraged because, according to her, she had passed her majority and disliked being treated like an elfling.

"Our daughter is only five hundred, meleth nin, and Elladan Elrondion is much older," Thranduil replied seriously. "I want to be certain that he isn't getting any… ideas."

"Ideas? Valar, he is two-thousand eight hundred and two at _least_!" Éllawen exclaimed. "If there is fault on any side, then its certainly Finduilas'. You know how enamored she is with the life of a warrior and slaying of enemies. Elladan is simply a… figurehead, for that attraction. Though he is a handsome young elf, much like his father and uncle…"

Thranduil looked at her. "Éllawen! What would Celebrian think?"

The elvenqueen realized what she just said sounded like, and blushed. "No… that wasn't… I didn't mean it _that_ way…!" She began, then stopped when she saw her husband had broken down into laughter at her expression. "Thranduil! You will be the death of me. Don't tease me like that."

She swatted half-heartedly at his silvery-blond head. Shaking his head with mirth, Thranduil caught her hand and kissed her fingers, pressing them over his heart. Their faces were so close their noses were almost touching. He could see the stars in her eyes and smell her sweet breath as it brushed warmly across his cheek. "Forgive me, my love. I could not resist."

She met his gaze solemnly. "All is forgiven."

"Mm."

He touched her cheek and leaned in. She tipped her head back and the met in a kiss. Her hands ran through his pale locks while he slipped an arm around her waist and held her tightly to his chest. They broke apart for a second.

"Dearest, how I've missed you so." The queen whispered.

Thranduil's eyes gleamed. "I've missed you too."

She gripped the collar of his tunic and they kissed again. A sudden change in the air caused Thranduil to tense and break away. He scanned the surrounding wood. There was a noticeable change in the air; it grew tenuous, like a sudden cold wind from the south. Éllawen grew rigid in his arms.

"Meleth nin, what is it?" He asked in concern.

She stared upward and did not answer for a moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was no longer carefree. "I was just thinking..." she said. "that if something happened to me, you would take care of our children?"

Thranduil stared at her. "Could I take care of them? Éllawen, nothing is going to happy to you."

"You do not know that." she murmured, "But could you? Promise me, Thranduil: that if something bad was to happen to me that you would not become like your father was after your mother was slain?"

"I promise. But why do you ask this of me?"

She looked away. "I cannot say. A dark shadow has fallen across my heart. I fear that evil approaches, and much quicker than we realizes. It is so much more, but _what_ it is… I can not tell. But it eases my heart to know that you would stay by their side. Encourage them to seek comfort in each other, and in you. _Hannon le_."

The elvenking was troubled, and by more than just his wife's ominous words. He could hear the trees whispering warnings. The birds no longer chirped and animals did not scurry. All had fallen into eerie silence. The two horses snorted and tossed their heads, whinnying anxiously.

"We should go,"

He stood up and helped Éllawen to her feet. Her face was pale.

"The trees…" she began, and Thranduil listened. As a pure blooded Silvan she had a deeper connection with nature than he. So when she said 'the trees say' he tended to pay strict attention. Now, as he listened, he could hear them stirring uncomfortably and speaking of danger. That was odd. Spiders never travelled to this place. It was safe enough that elleths would bring elflings to play.

"...they are frightened, and angry. Discomforted," she cocked head to one side, "They wish to say more but cannot, for whatever reason." She shivered.

They were suddenly joined by Vanion, who dropped from a tree to their left and hit the ground lightly. A few swift strides took him to his liege's side.

"Vanion," the king released his wife and addressed the guard, "What's wrong?"

The dark haired elf's face was overshadowed with worry and on high alert. "We must leave now, your majesties." he said. "Danger moves nearby. Barthaudh went to scout it out and has not returned. I do not understand it, but we must move-"

A loud bellow cut him off.

Thranduil turned around, and in that instant he heard the unmistakable twang of a bow. Pain exploded in his left side and he stumbled, caught of guard. He grabbed at the shaft that was buried deep in his left shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound and turned the green cloth to dirty red. Another twang, and an arrow whistled toward Éllawen. In a blur Vanion lunged forward and shoved her aside. There was a thump as it hit flesh, and the warrior fell to one knee, the shaft protruding from above his hip.

A wave of warning washed through the forest as the voices of the trees cried out alarm in unison. The horses screamed and reared; their hooves slicing through the air. Orcs burst from the surrounding trees, howling and screaming. Sunlight gleamed off of the parts of their weapons that wasn't rusty or stained with long dried blood. Their rotten teeth were bared and their eyes filled with bloodlust; death written upon them as if it was written upon a scroll.

For the life of him, Thranduil could not figure how such a party had managed to sneak up on them unawares. But this was neither the time or the place to find an answer to such a question.

With a jolt his warrior instinct kicked in and the elvenking realized that he and Éllawen were going to become arrow pincushions if they did not do something fast. Unfortunately, the glade offered little to nothing in the way of cover. The orcs swiftly gathered around the edge of the clearing, snarling and swinging their weapons. The two horses screamed in terror and collapsed hard, arrows protruding from their necks. Their deaths ended good chance of escape. Vanion had managed to stand, though he looked pale and was losing blood fast. Thranduil quickly grabbed Éllawen's hand and moved to put his body between her and the enemy, but no more arrows were loosed on the trio even though every orc with a bow in it's claws had a clean shot. The message this sent was clear.

The elves were meant to be taken alive.

Thranduil cursed.

He scanned the lines of pushing, shoving orcs. Some of them were curiously dressed in ragged cloaks and hideously painted masks concealing their faces. Suddenly, Thranduil realized the reason for this was because they weren't orcs, but Men.

He cursed again.

"Remind me where you learned that word from," Éllawen whispered in his ear. Her voice did not shake even though he knew that she was frightened.

"From Oropher, during the time that Doriath was sacked." Even in face of capture and possible death, Thranduil's lips quirked dryly. "My father had very _inventive_ words to call the Fëanorionath when he thought I wasn't listening."

"I can well believe," she muttered.

They fell silent as the orcs parted and a figure stepped forward. It was a Man wearing a black cloak with a mask painted to look like a grinning skull hiding his features. He was as tall as one of the Dunedain and wore a long sword in a battered sheath at his belt. He moved easily as one accustomed to leading foul creatures and ambushes.

"Well, look at it this! It seems that we have stumbled upon fair game." he called out. "Greetings Elvenking, and this must be the queen herself. We are most honored to make the acquaintance of such royalty."

The orcs gave guttural growl. Thranduil heard Éllawen draw in a sharp breath. She exchanged surprised glances with him. This man - apparently the leader - knew who they were, and clearly this as no lucky stumble-upon. This was a hunt, and the king and queen of Mirkwood were the hunted.

"Vanion, how do you fare?" the queen asked anxiously of the bodyguard in a low voice, even as she assessed his injuries with her own eyes.

The dark haired warrior grunted in pain. "A little… _shot_ …" he smiled grimly.

Thranduil could agree wholeheartedly. His own shoulder burned and throbbed but he ignored it stoically; he transferred his sword from his right hand to his left and reached up, grasping the shaft of the arrow and quickly snapping it off. He held back a hiss of pain and turned his attention back to the enemy.

"Mirkwood does not take kindly to trespassers," Thranduil replied calmly, his eyes as hard and cold as chips of ice. Drawing up to his full height and meeting the Man's gaze without so much as batting an eye, he looked every inch a ruler despite his wounded shoulder. "Leave now with you foul horde, and perhaps you will be spared."

The Men didn't laugh mockingly at the threat, but the orcs did. They thought it hilarious coming from a wounded and trapped elf. Thranduil ignored them and concentrated on the Man, while trying to also ignore the fact that orcs and Men working together was rare and certainly boded no good for their present predicament. There was an ulterior motive; but didn't have time to think about that either.

"You are clearly in no position to be making threats, elf king," the Man spoke again. "The three of you are alone, injured, and surrounded. Your warrior will not last long before the poisons now in his veins take over, and neither will you, king of Mirkwood. As I am feeling rather generous today, I will offer you two choices: surrender immediately, or fight and face the consequences."

The arrows were poisoned? Now Thranduil was gradually aware of a sharp pain growing behind his eyes, and a wave of dizziness caused the world to spin. Suddenly wearied, he was forced to lean slightly on Éllawen n for support lest he slumped to the ground.

"Whatever your choice is, I will follow." she whispered, her fighting spirit riled.

The Man-leader called out again "You're alone; no help will be coming."

Thranduil refrained from pointing out that, while he may not have an honor guard, there was always at least one warrior quietly guarding him and Éllawen from somewhere in the trees. In this case there were two. A subtle glance at Vanion, and the guard blinked repeatedly in answer to the silent inquiry. His countenance was stiff and uneasy. He, too, wondered what had happened to the second guard.

As if he were reading elvenking's mind, the man turned and gave a sharp gesture to one of his soldiers. An object was hustled to the front of the line and thrown onto the ground. It thumped dully and rolled, coming to a stop a few feet away from the three elves.

Éllawen gasped and covered her mouth with one hand, emotional pain filling her eyes. Her hand clutched Thranduil's in a death grip as they stared at the decapitated head of their hidden elven guard; his bloodied, bruised face frozen in a wide-eyed look of terror.

"Even elves aren't that hard to sneak up on, if you have learned your tricks." the Man said, as if he were speaking of the weather. He appeared completely unconcerned by the gory mess in front of him. "Which I have."

Vanion's self control wavered as he beheld the mauled face of his friend. The guard's stoic expression threatened to drop but he held himself together remarkably well.

Thranduil had been angry before. Now, he was livid.

The king's fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword, and he swore then and there that not a single orc would be left alive. They would pay dearly for Barthaudh's death. The orcs shuffled nervously and many drew back a step as Thranduil stared at the Man-leader with a look in his silvery-blue eyes that would send a dragon running for cover. Even the much more restrained Men muttered amongst themselves. Such deep wrath was hard to bring out from Thranduil, but once it was garnered he was deadly.

The Man-leader was unfazed, or if he was the mask hid it. "You needn't look so surprised; not even the swiftest of your kin can escape one experienced in hunting them. This is not the first time I have hunted your kind." he said casually, considering the three elves before him like he would appraise a herd of wild horses.

"Thranduil…" Éllawen touched his arm and directed his attention to the left. The orcs were beginning to edge closer and form a tighter circle around the two elves. They were trapped.

Thranduil adjusted his grip on his sword. It didn't matter how many enemies there were; he was determined to protect Éllawen at any cost and damn whoever or whatever was stupid enough to stand within reach of his sword or bare hands.

The Man-leader tapped his fingers on the hilt of his own sword. He was waiting for the poison to take enough effect that the elves could be more easily subdued, but he was nervous about being so close to the palace. A patrol could interrupt them at any moment. A minute of silence reigned over the small glade, disrupted only by the murmurings of the creek water.

"I tire of this," the Man gestured to the orcs. "Take them.

Chaos ensued.

The orcs bellowed in glee and charged forward so the very ground seemed to shake beneath their feet. Thranduil body, well honed in the art of warfare, responded seemingly of its own accord. His sword flashed, and the head of an orc was sent flying from its neck. Éllawen's own blade joined beside his in a deadly dance. Vanion held his own despite his injury, but his movements were cumbersome Bodies began to pile up on the ground as the once peaceful glade turned into a battle ground.

At first, all was well. But as the orcs continued to surge forward in a mad, howling frenzy, Thranduil once again demanded to know how such a horde had been able to sneak this close to the palace unnoticed by any patrol. He cut the orcs down easily but the Men were another matter. They were each trained to fight and fight well, although they were hardly a match for an experienced elf-lord, they were cautious and did not take as many of the blind risks that the orcs, who relied on their brute strength and force in numbers, took.

The tides quickly changed.

Thranduil became aware that they were forcing him, Vanion, and Éllawen to separate. Immediately he began fighting his way back to their side, but a surge of orcs from the left forced him to stop. He suddenly lost sight of Éllawen and found himself completely surrounded by triumphant _yrch_ and Men. They crowded about the golden-haired elvenking, all trying to strike him at once.

Spinning in a desperate fight for his life, Thranduil danced away from several blows, but several could also not be avoided. Swords and knives cut across his arms and his chest, and his green tunic was soon covered in his own blood. It seemed to Thranduil that for every blow he delivered he received two. There seemed an infinity amount of enemies to fight.

Thranduil could feel the poison seeping into his body, flowing through his veins and he felt like it was setting his blood on fire, but he kept alert despite the pain. _Stay focused,_ he told himself furiously as he started to stumble, _if you fail, they will die. Stay awake, Thranduil, stay focused._

The elvenking's foot caught on something in the grass and he stumbled. The poison in his veins did nothing to help his balance and he fell awkwardly to one knee. Three orcs leapt upon him and he felt the air whoosh out of his lungs from the heavy weight, throwing him to the ground. Sheer desperation overrode his pain and he twisted around, slitting the throat of an orc and shoved it backwards, throwing its companions off of him as well. He fairly flung himself to his feet again.

He could not help but gasp as a long dirty knife sank into his left leg. He slashed blindly at anything that got close, his vision blurry, blood flowing from each of his wounds. Two orcs fell. He struggled to stay on his feet and not fall.

A tall orc appeared in front of him and jabbed a scimitar at his neck, seeking an instant kill. Thranduil dodged, ducking and stood back up as soon as his tired limbs would obey his commands A sudden pain in his right upper arm drew a hiss from him as his body twisted viciously to the side from the impact of an arrow. The orcs made grabs for it. Automatically his fingers searched for, found, and curled around the shaft of the arrow that had pierced his arm as he prepared to draw it out, but he never got the chance.

Pure agony exploded in his head and a red haze clouded his vision. A hoarse gasp escaped from his lips and he tasted his own sickly sweet blood in his mouth. All his senses seemed to be overrun with pain and he felt himself slipping away into unconsciousness.

Then he heard Éllawen cry out with pain.

 _Éllawen_.

"Thranduil!" she screamed his name.

 _Stay awake!_ He screamed inwardly, _they are hurting her! Sweet Manwë, get up. Get up, Thranduil!_

The elvenking slipped his hands beneath him and struggled to push himself upright, his fingers groping for his blade. An iron-shod boot connected with his wounded side and Thranduil found himself suddenly weightless, tumbling through the air. His head banged hard against rock and he slumped to the ground as hands clawed triumphantly at his hair and tunic. Another kick smashed against his lower back and he groaned.

Dimly, as if from a long distance, he heard the orcs suddenly wailed in panic. Feet stampeded in front of his line of vision. A masked Man fell dead, his body split in two at the waist. The clang of metal against metal echoed strangely as Thranduil's body succumbed further to the poison and he began to lose consciousness even as he fought to remain awake.

" _Gurth a chyth vín!_ "

For an instant, Thranduil saw Legolas flinging himself into the fray, daggers whirling and golden hair flying. He tried to speak but found that his tongue would not respond. Light blurred and swarmed together as a dark tunnel swelled his vision and swallowed the light, sending the elvenking into a pit of complete and silent darkness.

 **...**

"Be careful now... move out of the way... quiet, he is waking..."

Soft whispers reached Thranduil's ears as he came slowly back to consciousness. He became aware first of a fierce burning of his skin and a terrible pain in his head. The elvenking hissed softly and opened his eyes, shutting again as light flooded and assaulted his eyes. Then he remembered, and opened them quickly.

"Éllawen!" He gasped and tried to sit up, but collapsed back against the bed as white hot agony erupted from a dozen different places over his body.

"Lay still, I don't want you reopening those stitches!" Galadhindil snapped, placing a hand firmly on the king's forehead to still his movements. Six hours ago the warriors had brought him in, sliced to bits and unconscious. At the same time, the crown prince Anárion had grown violent despite the heavily drugged induced sleep he was being kept in, and even Finduilas' desperate ministrations had done nothing to help his condition.

"Legolas…" Thranduil gritted his teeth against the pain. "Where is he, Galadhindil? Where is my son!"

She motioned to one of her assistant healers to prepare a sleeping draught. There was no way in Arda she would be able to successfully finish stitching the king if he was conscious. "The entire palace was in an uproar over what had happened, my lord," she explained crisply, "The Prince Legolas was even now hunting the orc and _edain_ party that…" she stopped herself suddenly.

"That what? What are you keeping from me? Éllawen and Vanion! Were are they?"

Galadhindil pursed her lips. "You must rest, my lord. The poison is a mixture of spider venom and _yrch_ concoction. It is still in your system. You are in no condition to be moving _at all_ ," she stressed.

But Thranduil would have none of it. He noticed the hesitation in the healer's eyes and how the lingering apprentices looked at him and cringed sympathetically. His jaw clenched and his glazed eyes grew dark with wrath." _Where. Is. My. Wife_ , Galadhindil? What has happened to Éllawen?"

The second healer returned with the sleeping draught. He glanced questioningly at the head healer, waiting for a sign to grab the elvenking and force the draught down his throat. Galadhindil stared at her liege, dilemma warring within her. How could she keep him in suspense, yet how could she reveal the uncertain fate of the queen now and then expect him to be able to heal? Both seemed equally cruel. But he would surely learn of it sooner or later, and when that happened it really didn't matter the manner of revelation. Nothing would dull the fear and pain of losing a loved one.

Galadhindil drew in a sharp breath. "When our warriors attacked, your son fought tooth and nail to get to the queen, but in the chaos he was forced to draw back. At the same time the Men knew they were beaten and hastened to flee even as the orcs did so. In the confusion they took the queen and her guard. Prince Legolas is hunting them as we speak..."

The blood drained from Thranduil's face and he heard no more of the healer's words. They had taken her. She and her guard were at the tender mercy (lack thereof) of the enemy. There was no time. They must be found! He had to do something…

Galadhindil knew the look on her liege's face. He was not going to be cooperative. She sighed resignedly. "I'm sorry, _hir nin_ , but this has to be done." She nodded to the healer.

They seized Thranduil, as gently but firmly as possible. His body was greatly weakened from the effects of the poison but he put up a struggle as they forced the sleeping draught down his throat and held him down until his struggles lessened and his tense body relaxed into sleep. The elves grimaced at one another, nursing the bruises they had received. They bore no ill will against the king, though. Galadhindil sighed in relief and stepped back, brushing dark hair out of her eyes. He would be unconscious for another six hours, at least.

Straightening her shoulders, she picked up a thin needle and turned her attention to a deep cut in the elvenking's side.

 **...**

A sharp breeze whistled through the branches of the looming trees, rustling the thick leaves and gathering dead brown ones from the ground in swirling dances. Above, the black sky was filled with white stars twinkling majestically, surrounding the crescent moon suspended amid the glorious chips of silver.

The trees were looming, with thick trunks, and sooty-colored bark. Their crackling leaves formed a barrier that would not allow moon nor starlight to penetrate the thick canopy and bring light to the ground. The nocturnal creatures that should have been busily going about their nightly tasks were strangely absent; the air filled with silent suspense and a subtle, ominous threat lurking in every shadow.

The elves hurtled through the trees with deadly grace and inhuman speed. From branch to branch they leaped in pursuit of the _edain_ and orc party that crashed through the undergrowth below, hauling two bound and cloaked figures in the midst of their group. The patrol, led by Captain Naeros, had sighted the party traveling in all haste toward the fortress of Dol Guldor and now they gave chase and were quickly overtaking the foe. If the Men worked with orcs, the possibility that they served the Necromancer was high. Dol Guldor was the most logical place the elvenqueen and Vanion would be taken as a prisoners.

The orcs shrieked as elvish arrows rained down upon them in a deadly torrent. The archers concealed in the trees were careful to avoid shooting the prisoners. The Men drew their weapons but against the Mirkwood warriors they had no chance. The orcs gathered into a group and tried to huddle behind their broad shields. Some fired arrows randomly into the surrounding trees in hopes of striking a warrior. Expertly concealed by the shadows, the elves weaved and dodged, as the arrows all flew on wild paths through the air. There were chances of being struck with a stray one.

A Man loomed in front of Naeros, his grotesque mask resembling a withered face twisted into a snarl. His axe blade whooshed in a powerful swing but the nimble elven captain had vanished. The Man found his axe imbedded deeply in the trunk of a tree where the elf's neck had previously been. Before he could recover from his surprise a slim blade sprouted from his stomach, and he fell dead. Naeros yanked his sword out of the carcass and blocked a blow from an orc, slitting the dark being's jugular and moving on to the next enemy.

There was a flash of golden hair out of the corner of his eye, and Naeros caught a glimpse of Legolas spinning amongst the enemy. The prince's flinty blue eyes were filled with rage and hate; a turmoil of emotions that raged like a caged hurricane while his twin knives wove a deadly pattern as they spilled blood. The _yrch_ and Men had dared touch the queen - his mother - and they would pay for it with their lives. Naeros allowed himself a moment to wonder at how alike to his father Legolas looked, especially when roused to anger.

An orc's scimitar sliced through the fabric of Naeros's upper left arm, leaving behind a deep bloody scratch that wasn't fatal, but stung like hell. With a curse, Naeros slew the orc and looked around for the prince. Legolas was fighting his way toward the cloaked figures of the queen and guard with a singular purpose in mind; to free them. And when Legolas set his mind to do something, it was nigh impossible to dissuade or distract him, and to try and keep him from rescuing his own naneth… that would be suicidal. But the Shadowed trees around were gleeful, and that was never a good sign.

Naeros killed an orc that tried to cut him through the center and waded through the fray to get to the prince. Legolas acknowledged him with the barest of nods and they fought side by side.

The wind strengthened, blowing the elven captain's silver hair away from his face and whipping it back. Immersed in battle though he was, he was not unaware of the whispers of the trees as they spoke amongst themselves. So many of the trees were Shadowed by the growing evil that their words could not be trusted nor did they themselves trust the elves they once welcomed under their shade.

 _ **Its a trap… a trap… the Bright Ones have fallen into the trap… the trap…**_ they chanted. Their sickly twisted branches snapped like whips and crashed together as they writhed in delightful fury like live snakes instead of wood.

The Bright Ones… that must be referring to the elves' natural glow, which was painful to the Shadowed trees. A chill went up the silver-haired captain's spine. Legolas' expression did not change but Naeros knew that the younger prince had heard it too. But he was not going to simply abandon the two prisoners.

Legolas lunged forward, knives spinning. The orcs gave piercing shrieks as he pounced on them. Blood both black and red sprayed onto the grass, making it slick underfoot and easy to slip. Chopped limbs went flying. The Men handling the prisoners scrambled away, dragging the cloaked figures with them.

"Legolas!" Naeros shouted, gaining the prince's attention and directing it toward the escaping Men. " _Bado!_ Go!"

The prince nodded and vanished. Triumphant bellows rang out from among the orcs, and Naeros realized that reinforcements for the enemy had arrived as more _yrch_ poured in from all directions. His mouth abruptly dried and his gaze flickered for an instant toward where the Mountains of Mirkwood loomed in the distance, the light of the stars that they blocked outlining their jagged black forms.

 _Could it be…_

Valar, no.

Naeros gave chase after the prince. He came upon Legolas slaughtering the Men while the two cloaked figures cowered at the base of a tree. The Men's strange weapons - spiked shurikens and sharp jagged scythe blades attached to a thick chain - they wielded with deadly accuracy but they were hard-pressed to defend themselves from Legolas. The prince was bleeding from multiple wounds caused by the blade-and-chain, but he fought on.

Naeros sprang toward the cloaked figures and landed lightly by their sides. They cringed back. He blocked a blow from one of the guards and stabbed him through the gut. Shoving the dying Man back, the silver-haired captain spun about and swept another off his feet, killing him with an arrow before he even hit the ground. Legolas caught a punch, yanked the Man's arm to one side and wrapped an arm around his neck. He jerked, snapping the Man's spine with a sharp _crack_. The prince shoved away the body and stepped up to the two figures. He grasped the edge of one of their hoods and flicked it back.

Naeros felt the blood drain from his face, leaving it cold and pale. He stared, shocked, down at the crouched figure of a woman. Red-haired she was like the elvenqueen, but very clearly human. _This_ was the trap. She spat at the two shocked elves and, with a wild shriek, slipped her hands free of their bindings and raised a sharp knife. But before she could bring it down, Naeros snapped out of his daze and grabbed her wrist, twisting sharply downward and forcing her to release the blade. The second cloaked figure leaped to his feet - the hood falling back to reveal a Man with a scarred face - drawing a hidden sword from somewhere in the folds of his cloak.

Legolas snapped.

It happened in mere seconds. The cloaked man attacked the prince, who countered with the ferocity of a wildcat. He fought tooth and claw; clear, unadulterated rage flooded his being and showed in his eyes. Fire and fury enhanced his strength. The ivory-handled daggers danced, piercing the Man's flesh and drawing screams of agony from his throat until one of the blades sliced across his throat. The Man collapsed on the ground, gaping as a waterfall of blood spilled down his chest. His last sight was a pair of blazing blue eyes filled with with hot rage.

Naeros subdued the woman and knocked her out using the flat of his blade. He wanted nothing more than to kill her… but at the same time there might be information she should give. Naeros would not spill her blood the way Legolas spilled the Man's, yet. Under normal circumstances, the prince was not one to torment his victims, but this was an exception. They had taken away his hope and left a terrible wound, because now the elves had no idea where the real captives were. Whatever pity the silver-haired captain might have felt vanished when he recalled the faces of the prisoners taken; the beloved Queen of Mirkwood, and his own brother.

Other elves nearby noticed what had happened, and their rage increased a thousandfold. Orcs dropped their weapons and fled howling into the woods where they were pursued and slaughtered. Men fell with arrows in their hearts.

Finally, it was over.

Naeros stood over the dead body of an orc, his sword blade dripping with it's blood. The carcass still twitched occasionally. Many carcasses both _yrch_ and _edain_ lay piled up in between the black trunks of the trees, which had finally stopped their writhing. Yet among them lay several elvish bodies, their eyes staring blankly up at the stars that they so loved; devoid of light and life. A knot formed in the captain's chest and reawakened a dull ache that he thought he, at last, might have healed of.

They sorrowfully gathered their own to themselves to take back to the palace for proper burials. Every elven life was held priceless beyond measure. And to lose three companions… it weighed like a mountain on their spirits. Then the weary and wounded warriors gathered around their prince; their faces grim and full of sorrow. Legolas stared at the torn gray cloak in his hands, his eyes as empty and devoid of life as one of the dead. It was a look that Naeros had seen before more times than he cared to count, and it saddened him to see it again.

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to hide his despair. He could not afford to give into his emotions right now. The warriors were exhausted and many were injured. They needed to return to the palace before they collapsed. A voice inside him - the voice of a loving son - screamed to focus solely on finding his mother. She was in danger. At the same time another voice - the voice of a prince and a captain - said that another search was simply not possible and it would be demanding too much. All of Mirkwood could not be searched in a single night.

Masking his face impassively, he turned to the warriors. "Bind your injuries as best as you can," he ordered crisply, "Gather the fallen and return to the palace. You have done well. Rest. Heal. Regain your strength. There is nothing…" his voice threatened to break, "...there is nothing else we can do."

Naeros stepped forward. "You will not come back with us, your highness?" He asked carefully, eyes narrowing. Legolas' façade of unlimited strength and endurance could fool many but not the veteran captain. He could see through the mask - Valar, he wore one himself almost constantly - and knew that the prince was just as weary and in as much pain as they were in.

"No." Legolas shook his head. "I will remain out here a little longer."

Naeros stepped close until he and the young prince were nearly nose-to-nose and none of the other warriors could hear them. In a low voice he said, "That is not a wise decision."

"No?" Legolas' eyes flashed dangerously. "My mother is gone, Captain, in the hands of our enemy and they are without mercy. Men do not simply disappear. They have the queen. She cannot travel beneath the trees without being sensed and spoken of." He knew all too well what Men could do with an elf in their grasp, and it sent his blood boiling to know that his naneth was in their hands, and he failed to find her.

Again.

Again, he had failed to save someone he loved from suffering so much at the hands of others. The Valar had blessed them with Anárion's return so many years ago - broken, but alive - would they be so blessed this time?

"And you are wounded," Naeros pointed out sharply, bringing Legolas out of his rapidly spiraling guilt. "Even if you were not, traveling alone through these woods alone would be foolish. What you propose is a decision you are making out of haste and in accordance with your emotions, which are less than stable."

"I do not need you to lecture me on how I feel, Naeros." Legolas clenched his fists at his sides.

Naeros shook his head. The prince could be as to more stubborn than a mule. He imagined how Thranduil would react if he heard the captain allowed his son to traipse around the forest, injured and alone, at night on a fruitless search. The very thought was intimidating. "We will return to the palace and take _her_ ," he gestured to the unconscious woman, "with us for questioning. I think your family has lost enough this day, Legolas," he added more quietly.

The prince stared at him, then nodded curtly. Wordlessly they assisted the warriors, fashioning carriers for those too wounded to walk and to help carry the dead. The woman they bound tightly with cords. It was a silent and dismal party that marched back to the palace just as a streak of red and gold brightened the black horizon.

 **...**

Finduilas stayed by her father's bedside, stroking his limp hand and staring at the proud face - usually so full of life and commanding, now pale and unconscious. Finduilas was not much better. She had gone without sleep and taken charge of the palace and her father's councilors, who seemed to think that the king could solve all of their problems while in a drugged sleep, or that that automatically put them in charge.

Finduilas had been quick to put them in their place; the young elleth taking command calmly and efficiently like her mother had trained her. She calmed the council, at least for the moment, oversaw the comings and goings of the patrols, began preparations for the burial ceremonies, sent word to her uncles (a choice she now dearly regretted making) and had to prepare to meet them running on nothing but a brief cup of lukewarm tea and her own strength of will keeping her on her feet. Everything she handled easily.

In truth, she desired nothing more than to run around in circles, screaming… and take her weapons and join the hunt for her kidnapped mother and bodyguard. But she couldn't. She had to look after a poisoned king and another brother whose body was shaken and his mental state of mind was little better. Legolas had not yet returned. That left Finduilas alone to lead with few at her side to provide assistance and a pack of irate councilors nipping at her heels like bloodhounds.

After Thranduil had been tended to, they had moved him into a private room. Galadhindil stood at the side table after having just finished changing the bloodied bandages. Finduilas stroked her ada's hand. Looking down at the elvenking, the young elleth's shoulders shook with suppressed sobs. "I'm sorry, Ada." she whispered, fingers curling around the king's cold unresponsive ones. "Nana… I'm so sorry…"

Breathing deeply to calm herself, she turned to the healer. "When will he waken?"

Galadhindil glanced briefly at the sleeping form. "Too soon." she replied with an agitated sigh. "He will cause himself further injury if he moves too much - and he will, knowing your father. Hopefully Prince Legolas will return with better news, for all of our sakes."

"I pray so," Finduilas shivered. "But finding her so quickly… that might be beyond him and anyone in Mirkwood."

The healer raised her eyebrows. "Are you giving up hope so soon, your highness?"

"No!" Finduilas shook her head forcefully. She quickly changed the subject. "How is Anárion? I haven't looked in on him in awhile."

"Visions trouble him no longer and your hellion of a brother sleeps at last, thank the Valar. He was driving my healers to the Halls of Mandos."

Finduilas nodded, albeit wearily. "Galad, is there a way to… to stop these visions? At least for awhile."

The healer's frown deepened. She appraised the young red-haired elleth before her, at a loss for what to say next. When she did speak, it was after choosing her words with caution. "Your parents asked me the same thing many years ago when . I cannot understand this gift, or curse as it may be, that your brother possesses. It is beyond my knowledge, and your question would be better put to Lord Elrond or the Lady Galadriel."

Feren, the king's seneschal, appeared in the doorway and bowed. The expression on his face was grim. "Princess Finduilas," he said. "Captain Naeros's patrol has returned."

She stood up quickly. "And?"

Feren opened his mouth to reply, but a commotion erupted at the end of the hallway. Finduilas and Galadhindil rushed out together. They beheld a bedraggled group of warriors, their number diminished by three, being herded into the infirmary by the healers who swarmed around them like bees swarmed a hive. They were covered in blood and many were limping or supported by their companions. Their prey had no let them off easy. Finduilas caught a glimpse of her brother assisting another elf and her own went cold.

"Pardon me, your highness…" a healer brushed by her. She automatically stepped out of the way but her gaze did not move. Legolas raised his head and their eyes met briefly before he was hustled into the infirmary. Finduilas leaned against the wall, her legs suddenly going weak.

Captain Naeros was being questioned by Galadhindil. The exhausted looking silver-haired elf gave his report with military strictness despite the fact that he appeared about ready to fall over. Finduilas listened.

"...followed them several miles away from the Enchanted River. They had two captives with them garbed in Vanion and the queen's cloaks. They were a large horde and had many archers among their ranks. Falas and Anu were felled by these, Eglerior by the sword of a Man." he drew in a sharp breath, clasping one hand to his chest where the tunic was stained with blood. His eyes filled with anguish alighted on Finduilas, and the next words he spoke were to her. "We recovered the prisoners, but they were only decoys. How the enemy switched them as we pursued them every minute, I do not know. The failure to notice this was mine."

Finduilas heard nothing more except the pounding of her own heart. Her chest clenched tightly and a sob rose in her throat. _No… this cannot be happening!_ Her mother was a captive still. Finduilas knew that she should place no blame on Naeros, but at the moment she hated the sight of the captain.

"We brought back a prisoner," Naeros added.

This snapped Finduilas out of her misery for a moment and a wild hope rose. "You took one of them captive?" She demanded, leaving the wall and stepping up close to the two. Her pale blue eyes bored into the silver-haired captain.

Naeros nodded. "Aye, my lady. She is being taken to the dungeons as we speak…" he trailed off, eyes suddenly glazing over. He would have collapsed if Galadhindil had not supported him.

"Take him in," she ordered one of the healers, then turned to glare at Finduilas. But the young elleth was no longer watching.

She spun around and ran swiftly down the corridor, turning into a hallway and then another until she reached a flight of steps that ran down into the dungeons. Elves who saw her scrambled out of the way but she paid them no heed. She descended swiftly into that dark abyss, an ethereal glow about her like starlight at her side. The dungeons were rarely ever used and so were not usually guarded, but now two elves stood before the door of one of the cells.

"Is the prisoner awake?"

The guard nodded. "She came to just moments ago, my lady."

"Open the door!" She commanded.

The guard took a ring of keys from his belt and inserted one into the lock. It clicked and the cell door swung open, emitting a loud squeal that made Finduilas wince from the assault of her sensitive hearing. Nonetheless she stepped inside.

The woman was crouched in the center over a puddle of dark liquid. She looked up as the elleth entered and a feral grin appeared on her face. "So, this is who they sent to interrogate me? A goddess of flame and fire? Oh, I quiver in fear before my interrogator-"

Her crowing was cut off as Finduilas seized her by the throat and hurtled her against the back wall. The woman slammed against it and slumped to the ground, momentarily stunned.

"Nay; but how about a goddess of death and revenge? Listen well to my words, _human_!" Finduilas snarled. "for I will not repeat them twice. My questions _will_ be answered and truthfully so. You will receive no mercy if you refuse, but only agony like you have never felt before. I offer you no freedom in return, and you will be blessed if we allow you to continue among living instead of slitting your throat like my brother did your companion, and like you deserve for your crimes. Now _where have you taken her_?"

"You will receive no answer from me, elf-filth!" The woman spat.

Finduilas grabbed the front of her tunic and backhanded the woman's face hard. Blood and spittle sprayed out of the female's mouth as she coughed. Finduilas threw her against the wall a second time. " _Where is my mother?!_ " She shouted. "Where have you taken her? I know how to cause pain, human! I know where I can make you suffer!"

Lying on the ground, the human suddenly started spasming and coughing again. Finduilas' foot slipped and she touched the wall for support. Looking down, the elleth found that she was standing in the middle of a large dark red puddle. Blood. Finduilas whirled around and at last saw the two twin trickles that spurted from the woman's wrists. A very small, thin, sharp piece of metal lay glittering in the corner. It was stained with drops of blood.

As Finduilas stared in horror, the woman cackled gleefully even as the blood poured from her slit wrists. "A pity!" She drawled, "That the mighty elves of Mirkwood never deigned to check under a girl's tongue."

"No!" Finduilas cried, seizing the front of the woman's tunic. "My mother! Tell me where she is!"

"She's… gone…" the woman smiled, displaying bloodied teeth. "You won't find her before it's too late. Too late already…"

Her body was already going limp and her eyes began to glaze over from blood loss. Finduilas was unable to tear her eyes way. It was not fascination. She had never seen another being take their life of their own free will. It was terrible to behold. The woman's body shuddered several times and her eyes widened. Then she stilled; staring up at the ceiling with a hollow, empty gaze.

Gone. Dead, and her precious knowledge with her.

Finduilas threw back her head and screamed.

 **...**

"You shouldn't have done it alone."

"Oh no? You and Legolas weren't exactly coherent at the time to lend me support. I did what I had to… and it was ultimately worthless." Finduilas retorted bitterly.

"You still should have waited."

"But I didn't! And there is nothing you or anyone else can do to change that." Finduilas slammed her fist onto the table, disrupting several glass vials and almost knocking them to the floor. "Mother is gone… she's _lost_."

She fell silent and focused her attention back to her sleeping father, who had yet to awaken. Across from her sat Anárion, pale and weary. When informed of what transpired once he had woken up, the crown prince had not seemed very surprised. Greatly upset, of course, but it hadn't come as a shock. His visions usually turned out true in one form or another, however horrible they were.

A haggard looking Legolas appeared, his right forearm swathed in bandages and his loose silver tunic hiding the rest. He stood beside Anarion and stared at Thranduil. His face was impassive. Finduilas clenched a fistful of her green skirt and bowed her head, eyes beginning to glaze over. She quickly shook herself awake as a brown-haired Silvan elf stepped in the doorway.

"Feren." Anárion nodded.

"Your highnesses," the seneschal bowed, "the Idhrenionath have arrived, and await you in the throne room. Lord Daugion is with them as well."

For a minute, Finduilas entertained the wild idea of curling up next to her ada, pulling the sheets over, plugging her ears and pretending Arda did not exist anymore; something she would, ordinarily, never do. It was tempting. She immediately discarded it. She was a warrior and the daughter of a king; there was no room for such a pleasure.

"Why did you send for them?" Legolas demanded.

"Because if they should hear such terrible news from anyone, it should be from us and not a stranger passing the tale along," she replied defensively. "We have done our best to keep it from spreading too far, but spreading it is nonetheless and the Idhrenionath would have been among the first to hear. Nana is their sister, Legolas. They love her too."

"Aye, and knowing Lannaras he will be quick to place the blame of her capture on Ada and spread disrest." Legolas retorted. "He was against their marriage from beginning…"

"Because Ada is Sindar and a thousand other reasons besides that, I know." The young elleth grimaced. Of all her uncles, Lannaras had a quick temper to rival that of Maedhros, which was one of the reasons why he and Thranduil were more enemies than kin.

"Finduilas…"

"Shouldn't you be resting, Legolas? Because you aren't making my tasks and decisions any easier!" she snapped, reaching up to wipe away several bitter, traitorous tears that slipped down her smooth cheeks. She was hurting and besieged by guilt, and knew her brother was too. "Go; before Galadhindil returns and decides to tie you down. I will handle our uncles."

Anárion watched the entire exchange without comment. Legolas nodded and left without a word, although Finduilas doubted he would return to the infirmary. The young elleth rose, albeit reluctantly, and left the infirmary with Feren faithfully at her side.

Elves gathered together in small groups in the corridors. Their whispers ceased as Finduilas passed by. She gave them small reassuring smiles and they relaxed, if only slightly. But the gossiping resumed as soon as she was far enough away that they thought she couldn't hear them. Finduilas grasped the pendant around her neck and tried to shut out the words she could hear.

"How fares the king?" the seneschal broke the tense silence between them.

"As well as can be expected. I dread his wakening, yet I cannot wait for it." Finduilas replied, reaching up and brushing her curtain of red hair out of her blue eyes. Beside her, Feren watched her face with a carefully controlled expression, his eyes lingering on the silky vivid locks and the lovely face they framed. Finduilas resembled her beautiful mother in many ways, but she had her father's temper when roused. Now, she just looked worn.

"I understand, my lady. You are under unspeakable pain and stress, and one can but admire your strength and confidence."

Inwardly, Finduilas snorted bitterly. To her it was nothing but a facade. A necessary one, but still a facade. They had to keep hope alive. But how could they when they themselves were hopeless?

They reached the doors of the throne room and Finduilas paused. In her simple dress and leggings she was not garbed appropriately for a formal audience, but she doubted that the Idhrenionath would care. "Feren," she said, turning to the ellon, "Will you keep an eye on Legolas while I am handling my uncles… make sure he does not try to do anything stupid?"

"I will to the best of my ability, _hiril nin_." The elf bowed again.

Finduilas nodded her thanks gratefully. Taking a deep breath and throwing back her shoulders, she pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

The throne room was mostly empty, and dark. Shadows gathered and deepened where the flickering torchlight attached in braziers to the walls could not penetrate. Tapestries hung between tree-like columns, depicting scenes of brave charges and cool forests. At the back on a raised dais the throne of twisted branches stood; empty, with another for the queen and smaller ones for the heirs.

Standing together, outlined by the torches behind them, were three figures. The brothers of Éllawen; all tall and dark-haired, bearing sheathed swords at their belts and quivers upon their backs. They turned to face her as she approached. Daugion, the eldest of the three, was cold and emotionless as a sheet of ice. The expression was mirrored on the other two.

"My lords," she inclined her head. "Thank the Valar you have arrived so swiftly. The king and his sons would have greeted you also but they are unable to receive visitors."

"Dispense with the pleasantries, Finduilas. We're not here to talk with the king; we're here to find our sister and bring here back with us," the youngest snapped, his eyes blazing. "This madness has gone on long enough. Allowing Éllawen to wed Oropherion was a mistake and one that I dearly regret making."

"Peace, brother. Do not insult the king in his daughter's presence, or presume that you always knew what was best for our sister." Húher said, shooting his brother an irritated look. "Enough trouble has been caused, and we do not need you adding needlessly to it with your careless words."

Finduilas bit back a retort, grateful for his intervention. "You look tired, my lords. I'll have rooms prepared and have the servants draw baths. Please, rest. And tomorrow we will speak further." She summoned her best imitation of her father's _this-is-final_ voice, companioned with a stern glance at Lannaras.

The brothers nodded. Finduilas summoned a servant and bade him to escort the three brothers to their rooms. When they had gone she pressed her back against one of the pillars and slumped with relief. _At least that went better than expected._

The double doors were thrown open and Galion the butler rushed inside, forgoing his more stately steps for speed. Galadhindil had a way of sending even the stateliest of elves running like elflings to carry out her orders. "My lady!" He gasped. "The king is awake."

 **...**

Thranduil listened.

He did not interrupt, just listened as Legolas explained what happened during the chase and fight. His son spoke monotonously and was straight to the point like he was reporting a patrol. Captain Naeros stood in the corner, bandaged, with Galadhindil hovering in the background fairly furious that her patients had been snatched out from underneath her. Finduilas stood beside the king's chair, her hands clasped and her chin raised defiantly.

Anárion sat with a bowed had, his long hair hiding his face from view. The crown prince blamed himself, that much was clear.

Thranduil kept listening.

Legolas came to the end of his report. A long silence stretched out. Thranduil was outwardly inscrutable, no emotion showing on his face, but his heart clenched with dread and pounded as if to burst. He struggled to remain strong for the sake of his children… for the sake of all of them. But his fea cried out in sorrow for the lives of the warriors slain, and in anger for those who had caused it.

Then Finduilas spoke and briefly summarized what had happened with the prisoner.

They all listened.

And then she fell silent. There were no tears in her eyes but Thranduil caught a glimpse of her hands. The were clenched and shaking. Wordlessly he drew her close. At his touch she sniffed, then her control crumbled and she collapsed into his arms, crying. He stroked her hair and simply held her to him, trying to give what little comfort he could to his grieving daughter. Captain Naeros glanced away, not wanting to intrude on a private moment.

"Anárion warned us of this long ago, and we laughed him off." Legolas said. "Only now do I realize how right he was. And now we are facing the consequences of our arrogance. _My_ arrogance. Falas, Eglerior, Anu… Valar, this is my fault." His hands clenched into fists around so tight his knuckles turned white.

"The fault is not yours alone, Greenleaf." Anárion spoke, raising his head. "It is shared among us."

"No!" Thranduil's voice was bitter but powerful. "You, my children, are not to blame. Legolas, you cannot save everyone in a fight no matter how hard you try. Anárion, if I had paid more attention, heeded to your dreams, and not taken your naneth to ride, perhaps this would not have happened. Finduilas…" he trailed off, pressing her closer against his chest. His voice threatened to shake. "Nonetheless, it has happened and the fault is mine, and mine alone."

He sat up straighter, ignoring Galadhindil's sharp exclamation about not tearing stitches. "We will not leave your naneth or Vanion to suffer. In taking them and killing Barthaudh, those who caused this have threatened all of Mirkwood." His eyes gleamed. "They will be stopped before more of our people can come to harm. They will face the wrath of the Firstborn, and rue the day they first stepped foot beneath the boughs of our forest."

.

.

 **So… you made it to the end! Wow. Just… wow.**

 **I am in awe of this. Really. 32 pages at 12 font and single line spacing. This** _**chapter one**_ **ALONE is 14,658 words long. That might not be a lot for some writers, but for me, it's incredible. It might not seem like so huge... but... *faint squeak* it is pretty darn big.**

 **So, this is it. The beginning of the rewrite. Yayy. xP Since I plan for the chapters to be so friggin' long, that does mean you will be waiting longer for them. But since they're so long… heh heh. There are probably a lot of blaring errors and some contradictions in this chapter, as I still do not have a beta-reader and probably won't for a long long time, so if you find any, I'll work on fixing them ASAP.**

 **Also, I'm not good at inspirational speeches. WHOA. Who knew? xD**

 **Yeah, this story is based mainly off of OCs. Go figure. But I'm not quite ready to deal with canon characters yet… I mean, you guys wouldn't want me to botch Legolas' character would you? 'Either write it well, or don't write at all' is kind of my motto right now, though it wouldn't work for most people I guess. Not that great of a motto, but, hey, I swear I'm going to write a book on Legolas and Aragorn. I've even got most of it planned out! I'll write it in my spare-spare time whenever I need to take a break for this. It's called "The Monster Inside". (cue du-du-duh)**

 **As you noticed, I changed Anárion around. My reason was because I kind of wanted a character with a physical disability, and Anárion was, unfortunately, the perfect choice. That leaves Legolas the room to be 'The Warrior'. And not all elves remain perfect, right? They can sustain injuries which even their heightened healing cannot wholly correct. Anárion's will be explained later. *smile***

 **As for character names…**

 **I couldn't find a name I liked on any website for Thranduil's wife, so I created my own. I know that's kind of a taboo no-no and sometimes frowned upon in the fanfiction world, but I really couldn't find one that really "fit" her. And mine isn't that bad is it? Her name can be loosely translated as simply "Elf-maiden", alternatively "Star-maiden", as El- can be translated as both Elf and Star and almost every name with the meaning of "maiden" in it had -Wen in some part of it.**

 **Galadhindil's name is a combination of Galadh (Tree) + Indil (Lily) so her name means "tree lily".**

 **I created Barthaudh's name using Bartha (To Doom) + Haudh (Tomb). Basically his name can be roughly translated as "doomed to the tomb", and it even rhymes. So, yeah, the poor elf never had a chance. xD**

 **PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW and tell me what you think. I really appreciate feedback. Keeps us writers chugging along, you know? You get to see cute wittle elfling Maedhros in the next chapter that will probably involve a lot of terribly written battle scenes as well. Heh, heh.**

 **Until then, guys! Ta-ta!**

 **-NIGHT**

 **(Update: 3-29-2016): I changed "Rawien"'s name to "Naeros" for reasons that will be explained later. It is a name I made up because I couldn't find one that I liked that matched what I needed. So... there you go.**


	2. At Hours End (Part One)

**Hi! Night again.**

 **I'M SO SORRY FOR MAKING YOU GUYS WAIT SO CRAZY LONG! Life has been so chaotic with my bro getting a job, me getting my braces off, us all getting sick again, and NanoWriMo, which I am sacrificing to write this. So.. you're welcome. xP I really busted my rear end off writing this much today, and I was feeling really guilty about making you preciouses wait so long that I decided to post this 'half' of a chapter in repentance for my sorrowful sins. *hangs head* Ahem! Anyway, I'll post the rest of it as soon as I've finished. In the meantime, enjoy meeting baby Maedhros. I hope this chapter doesn't suck and feel sappy too bad (though it definitely feels like it).**

….

 **CHAPTER TWO**

At Hour's End

….

 _Three years…_

Blood stained the floor in pools dried long ago by the passing of time. Fresh splashes decorated the walls and ran along the lines of the cold stones. The air was foul with the stench of waste and blood, and filthy rags that had never been washed. From far away down the corridor the flickering light of a single torch could barely touch the rusty iron bars of the lonely cell, which was bare except for two figures huddled in the corner where the shadows were deepest.

A drop of blood trickled down the elleth's bare shoulder, slipping further over the elbow and forearm before trailing down the length of her forefinger, lingering on the nail before it formed a bright crimson sphere and fell, plopping onto the ground. Her fair face was blotched with dark bruises and inflamed cuts and her shaking body beaten and terribly abused. Her skin was frigid to the touch - dangerously cold, as the blue tints of her fingertips attested. But she pressed the tiny child at her side closer, giving what little warmth she had to him.

A noise like thunder boomed overhead and the earth seemed to tremble. The elfling craned his neck and huddled closer to her, peering around anxiously at the dark cell as he tried to find the source of this strange sound. Another boom, and he shivered.

"Shh," the elvenqueen whispered as ran her cold fingers reassuringly through his tangled red locks and pressed him against her chest so that the sound of her heartbeat, weak though it was, might bring him some measure of comfort. "Don't be afraid, pen-neth."

He tugged at her ragged sleeve, a solemn expression on his face. There was confusion and sadness in his eyes; an understanding that no child so young should ever have. But also an untamed fire that ran through her blood and the blood of all her children. One that could not be so easily defeated. It brought her joy to see it burning so brightly in this one who was barely old enough to toddle around on his own feet.

The ground shook and dirt fell from between the cracks that spiderwebbed the ceiling, lightly dusting the two prisoners below. Éllawen stared up at the cracks, an intense expression of longing on her face, wishing she could tear apart with her bare hands the dozen feet of stone that separated her from the world above. Too long had she been kept in the dark away from the open sky and stars, and her fëa craved release from the black box it had been caged in.

Éllawen's harsh breath hitched in her dry throat and she coughed. When the fit subsided she leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily. The elfling blinked lethargically and rubbed his eyes with tiny fists. Éllawen shifted him into her lap, taking comfort in his warmth as he did in hers. To take her mind off of the stars she cast her thoughts back to the two years she had spent keeping her child out of the claws of the orcs. During her year-long pregnancy the orcs had taken every opportunity to torment her in hopes that she was miscarry. It was a miracle the elfling had survived at all. During this time she had discovered an interesting part of her cell, and used it to hide the baby, telling the orcs that it had died. They believed her and the elfling lived to see his second year, but it was a weary existence for the both of them.

"Do you want me to tell you a story?" She whispered, taking his hand in her own and stroking each of the little fingers.

The elfling blinked and nodded, snuggling into her arms. His lack of vocal response brought the familiar uneasiness into the elvenqueen's heart. Had her son's ability to speak been compromised in the womb by the abuse she had suffered at the hands of the orcs, for never had she heard him say a single word though she talked aloud as often as she could.

Shoving aside the fear, she started to speak. "Once upon a time, there was a prince, the son of a powerful king who ruled over a beautiful green wood. He was tall and fair, beloved by all his people and one of the strongest warriors the realm had ever seen. He was also as stubborn as a big-horned bull, but we will get to that later. One day, the prince was hunting in the forest with a group of friends. They stopped to rest, and the prince went down by himself to the river to refill his waterskin. Since the sun was high in the sky and the morning was hot, he decided to take a walk along the river to refresh himself. As he walked he came upon a beautiful glade with a waterfall at the back and was filled with rare flowers. Attracted by their great beauty he decided to pick some to bring back to his naneth. But as he was picking, a maiden came from the forest."

From the end of the long corridor outside an iron door clanged loudly, echoing down the dank passageway. A scream of agony tore from the throat of an unfortunate being, followed by the gleeful howls of the orc torturers. A whip cracked. The lonely torch sputtered and died out, it's weak flames flickering into nothing and complete darkness descended upon the dungeons.

"The maiden was furious with him for picking the flowers," Éllawen continued the story, smiling fondly at the memory despite her bleeding lips, "When he tried to explain his reasons she did not listen but instead upbraided him sharply, saying that he had no care for nature and it's children. Naturally the prince did not like her very much for this because he was unused to being spoken to in that manner so he responded just as sharply, and they started to argue hotly. Finally the furious prince stormed off to find his friends, leaving the maiden behind in the glade."

Metal clanked in the cell further down away from theirs, and the screaming began again with renewed agony. The orcs were pulling teeth again with the pliers they seemed so fond of using. Éllawen placed one hand over the elfling's right delicately pointed ear and bent her her down so her lips were close to his left ear and her voice would be all he would hear in an effort to block out the terrifying sounds coming from the torture chamber.

"A few days later the king held a festival to celebrate the begetting-day of his wife. The maiden travelled with her father, her mother, and her brothers to the palace for the festival. During the ceremony, the maiden was taken by her mother to be introduced to the queen and her son, the prince, who, to the maiden's surprise and dismay, turned out to be the very elf she had chastised in the glade. She also saw that the queen wore a crown woven of those flowers the prince had picked and given to his mother for her begetting-day gift. The maiden was terribly ashamed of herself and tried to apologize, but the prince turned her away coldly. He was not very forgiving right then," Éllawen added, this time a touch of dryness entering her voice.

Another fit of coughing overwhelmed her body, this time more violent and long than the last one. She doubled over helplessly, mouth open as her stomach dry-heaved again and again and a dark liquid filled her mouth, dribbling from between her cracked lips and down her chin. All the while the elfling stood beside her, patting her shorn hair and wiping her mouth with the sleeve of his smock.

" _Hanon le, ion nin_ ," she murmured once able to. Pushing herself upright again she took his hand and drew him back into her lap once more. "Where was I… ah, yes; the unforgiving prince. The king noticed his son's behavior and told the prince that he should not be so arrogant and unforgiving. At the same time the maiden's father told her that she should put aside her prideful nature and ask for forgiveness again. So they found one another the next evening during the feast. They apologized, and the prince took the maiden to dance. They danced together many times that night and found that they enjoyed each other's company. When the festival ended the maiden went back with her family to the village where they lived."

The screams from the cell abruptly ceased and chains jingled. The elvenqueen raised her head in alarm as a door slammed and heavy footsteps thudded closer and closer in the direction of their cell. She quickly eased the elfling off of her lap and turned around, digging her nails into the stone slab behind her. It shifted and groaned as she pulled it open, revealing a tunnel behind it only large enough for a small creature to fit through. "Quickly, _ion nin_ ," she urged frantically. The elfling crawled inside and sat against the wall, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his thin arms around them. He looked at her with large green-blue eyes.

"We are going to play the game again, pen-neth," she murmured, brushing his cheek. Love that only a mother could have for her child filled her gaze. "Hide in here and remember; don't make a sound until naneth comes and finds you." It was a 'game' they had played since she had discovered the hidden chamber at teh back of their cell. If it had been large enough she would have crawled in herself and see where it led, but, alas, it was not but provided a perfect hiding place for her elfling.

She pushed the hidden door shut with the last of her strength and lay on the floor, struggling to continue breathing. At the same time the orcs pounded up to the cell door carrying flickering torches and bringing with them an odor of death and destruction. The biggest of the orcs brought out a ring from his dirty kilt and inserted it into the lock. Throwing open the door he stormed inside and seized Éllawen by her throat, slamming her against the wall.

"Wakey wakey, elf-spawn!" the biggest of the orcs snarled. "Still cryin' for your little bratling, eh, filth? Wishin' the little parasite had stayed alive to give happiness to its spawner. What'd you think?"

The elvenqueen said nothing but her blazing eyes spoke volumes about her thoughts. Seeing the pure disgust and contempt in her eyes for the dark creatures angered the orc and he tightened his grip around her neck until she was choking, her fingers clawing fruitlessly in an attempt to free her throat.

"I'm gonna make you regret that, elf-spawn!" he hissed, trailing a claw along the cuts and bruises that covered her beautiful features. "Gonna make you scream just like we made the other one. Scream until you can't scream anymore and you beg for death."

He jerked his head at the other orcs crowding in the doorway. They pushed and shoved inside the small cell, shoving Éllawen to her knees facing the wall and locking heavy manacles around her wrists to hold her in place with her already abused back exposed to whatever torment they chose to inflict.

Preparing herself for the oncoming pain, Éllawen closed her eyes as they tore the remains of her dress from her body, revealing the stripes that covered her back, shoulders and arms. Some were yellow and fading while others were still inflamed and painful. The large orc removed the whip from his belt, dangling the leather thongs in front of her eyes. The tips were covered in fresh blood. She knew exactly whose, and her heart ached in her chest.

 _I'm sorry, Vainion. Please forgive me…_

The whip cracked and Éllawen flinched as a new strip of fire was laid over the other older lashes. A second came quickly behind the first and the elvenqueen held back a hiss as it caught one of the sore lashes. The orcs laughed as the lashes started coming faster and faster, the agony building until it was nigh unbearable. Éllawen pressed her forehead against the cold stone and moaned aloud, unable to hold it back.

All the while they taunted her.

"You mate has abandoned you!"

"The filthy elves ain't comin' to save you!"

"You ain't an elf queen anymore,"

"Aye, an elf _whore_ that's what ya are!"

"A pretty little trinket for our amusement,"

The whip wrapped around her chest, catching more sensitive parts of her body and causing a burst of white-hot agony to erupt as the jagged pieces of metal woven into the whip tore at her skin. Spots danced before her eyes as the last bits of resolve left in her were torn away, and she could only hope that her elfling did not heed her cries of distress and come out of hiding to become an orc's plaything.

 _Whore._

She screamed.

 _Wench._

Crack! Crack! Crack!

When she clamped her mouth shut so hard that her teeth ached, she realized that faint crying could heard coming from the secret panel in the wall. So she didn't try to hold back her cries any longer for the sake of covering up the noises the elfling was making. Not that it was hard. The orc wielding the whip worked the elvenqueen long and brutally until the \blood was pouring from her back.

Behind the orcs stood a lone figure shorter than the dark beings and covered from head to foot in a dark cloak. It watched the merciless torture continue impassively, without a single emotion flickering through the strange pale eyes. Then it gave a small nod to the orcs and spun on it's heel, walking silently away down the corridor until swallowed by the shadows.

 _Elf slut._

Hot blood trickled steadily down into an ever growing pool on the floor.

 _There is no light in the darkness._

She broke.

"Saes! Stop!" she sobbed. "Please, no more! No more! Valar, _man agornin_? What have I done? _A Beligered, si car lasto nîn! Yanna nin gwîl, Hiril Elbereth!_ O Great Mountains, only now do you listen to me! Give me peace, Lady Elbereth! _Yanna nin gwîl_..."

With a last hoarse scream she slumped limply against the wall and moved no longer. The orcs continued the beating until they grew bored by the lack of response from the prisoner, who was deeply unconscious. Muttering angrily that their play was stopped short they filed out of the cell and the big orc shut it behind him and locked it. He did not bother removing the elvenqueen from the manacles. Soon, the entire dungeon was empty and silent.

The hidden door groaned as it was slowly pushed open and the elfling crawled out. He had heard the _yrch_ leave and waited impatiently for Nana to 'find' him. She always did no matter how nasty the orcs had been. But this time she hadn't, and the elfling was sadly perplexed. Now, as he glanced around the dark cell to make sure that the _yrch_ were truly well and gone, he spotted her form slumping limply against the wall. Having lived in continuous darkness for, well, all his life so far, the elfling's eyes were well adjusted and he could easily picked out the horrible wounds that covered the elvenqueen's lithe body.

He scrambled over to her side at once, his small hands pressing against her chest, which barely rose and fell. Confused by what was happening he opened his mouth to plead, the only word that he cared about slipping from his lips in a trembling whisper.

"N-Nana?"

The word echoed faintly, so very faintly.

"Nana?" It was repeated louder this time.

Still the elvenqueen's body was still. Tears leaked from under her closed eyelids as if she knew who was begging her to come back even in the depths of unconsciousness. But she still did not wake.

"NANA!" The elfling screamed in terror. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his cheek, tears slipping over her fingers. His voice, hoarse from disuse, rang through the deathly silent dungeon like a tsunami over a dry, cracking beach. The sentries at the top of the steps woke from their sleep with a start, and looked around, wondering what had made the noise. Eventually they shrugged it off and went back to sleep, satisfied that nothing was amiss.

Through a thick mental cloud of darkness, Éllawen could faintly heard the terrified cries of her son, and even as her heart soared to hear his voice she wept, not knowing that the tears slipping down her own cheeks were real. She could feel life slipping away ever passing moment like water through her fingertips, like a dying ember among cold coals. No longer could she reach into her reserve of strength and draw from it the will to live. Her dry, cracking spirit begged for refreshment that a century of sleep and an ocean could not provide. She wanted peace.

Pain.

There was no respite from the pain.

But her child needed her.

With a gasp of pain the elvenqueen awoke, choking on her own blood. The elfling started from the sudden movement and drew away, fear in his eyes as he looked upon her. He wasn't afraid of her but rather afraid to bring her more grief by touching her inflamed skin. The elfling had witnessed enough of the aftermaths of a beating to know what would cause more pain.

But Éllawen no longer cared about the state of her body. All she cared about was the child before her; that which she had given all of her fëa to bring into the world, the life that she had carefully concealed and preserved from the Darkness that threatened to consume it. It was a bright light shining in the deepest shadows and she would not see it snuffed out.

"Nana!" He whimpered.

"Don't cry," she whispered, twisting her hands in the manacle to brush her shaking fingers across the soft, downy hair. "Don't cry… don't cry… there's nothing to fear…" _But there is so much._ She blinked back her own tears, focusing on remaining strong. She did not know what would happen but she prayed that, be it today, tomorrow, or even years, the elfling would someday find his way to the family he belonged.

The elfling tore a clump of fabric off of his smock and gingerly daubed it against her shoulder. It came away soaked in silvery blood. The elfling dropped it and stared at her beaten body in dismay, his face crumpling, as if realizing just how hopeless the situation was.

"Come now, _ion nin_ , don't be sad," she whispered shakily. Her breathing was harsh and heavy but despite this she drew in a lungful and started to sing softly, ever so softly.

"Minuial telitha

i elenath deliatha

vi guren

an-uir hebin

I tinu na le

i calad gerich

ir ardhon

os-mín galatha helch

Ú-daro laer

meleth ú-gwannatha

i elenath ú-thinnatha

ir vi hin-lín…"

The elfing pressed against her side regardless of the blood that stained his hair or that his pert nose was being squished. The elvenqueen continued to hum, volume of her voice rising and falling with the notes she remembered. It brought her comfort to sing them just like her mother had sung to her over her cradle so many years ago, and like she had sung to Anárion, Legolas, and Finduilas when they were naught but infants.

 _Ai, Thranduil; forgive me… Anarion, Legolas Finduilas… please… I'm sorry…_

Her children would grieve when she was gone, blaming themselves, she knew. They would look to their father for comfort and guidance, and she prayed the her husband would find a reserve of his own from which to give consolation, and that he would receive it himself in turn from.

 _You will have to love them enough for the both of us now here in Arda,_ she thought sorrowfully _._

 _Remember your promise, Thranduil. We will meet again in Valinor, you, and I, and all of us, and I will be waiting to welcome you home. That is my promise. We will be as a family once more, but that time is not now and you must not hasten your coming. For our children. For us._

Clang, clang!

Someone was opening the dungeon door; stone screeching against stone and iron bars rattling. Éllawen's stomach twisted into knots of fear. The _yrch_ were back to continue their games; she could hear their rough snarls and feel their trembling footsteps.

"Ion nin, you must go!" She told the elfling, giving him a desperate nudge with her knee toward the hidden door in the wall. "Stay away from the _yrch_ or they will kill you. Follow the tunnel until you find a way to get out of this fortress."— _if you can_ —"The Valar must guide you for I cannot."

"Nana-!" the elfling protested.

" _Bado_!" she screamed. " _Badio_ , _ion nin_. _Avo visto_!"

The elfling dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the tunnel. He paused, turning to stretch out his hand, his eyes distressed and begging for her to follow… why would Nana not follow? Then he was swallowed up by the shadows.

As the orcs banged the door open and stormed inside, snarling and raging, Éllawen was entirely unaware of their entering. They had broken her in body and spirit maybe, but she had not been defeated entirely. A tear slipped down her cheek. But it was not one of despair.

 _There was still light._

...

Saonn stood in one of the cramped rooms of the fortress keep. There were no windows, only a single door at the front through which a person could enter and exit. No banners or tapestries hung on the stone walls, which were slimy with moisture and stank of mildew and the naturally distasteful smell that accompanied orcs wherever they went.

The Haradrim stared at the wall, his eyes filled with anger. _Two years,_ the assassin gritted his teeth. He and his followers had served under the Dark Lord's command, and yet he still refused to pay what he had promised. If it were any other Man, then he would not still be alive. But this was the Necromancer - a powerful sorcerer, and even Sang was afraid of him. You could not kill what was already dead, or suspected to be so. He was not superstitious, but he was familiar with the rumors shrouding Dol Guldor and didn't care to personally find out if they were true or not.

Even now, he was debating whether or not to stay and finish what had begun, or leave Khazad Dur to it's fate, whatever that may be. He didn't care if it was torn to the ground so long as he and his men weren't _in_ it when that happened.

The creaking wooden door opened then slammed shut so hard that the metal latch rattled. A hooded and cloaked figure swept up to the stone pedestal dominating the center of the chamber, his gray robes fluttering as he walked. "All is silent out there," he said, gesturing with his head, indicating the outside surroundings, "the sentries have nothing to report."

"Tell them to remain on high alert," the Haradrim replied sharply in his heavily accented voice, "If a single one of those filth falls asleep I will personally carve his bones out one by one, is that understood?"

The dark-haired man nodded silently. Saonn eyed him distastefully. Of all the mercenaries he had brought with him, he trusted this one the least. Kalarith - as his name was - was a man of few words, befriended no one; a loner, and a dangerous one at that. He spent much time with the she-elf, and - while the creature was indeed beautiful and alluring - Saonn didn't trust anyone who went into company with one of the woodland sprites. It was unnatural.

Now the assassin's green-brown eyes lowered to the dark red blood spatters on the front of Saonn's robes, then to the dungeon keys lying on the pedestal.

"The orcs have had their fun with the she-bitch down in the cells," Saonn responded harshly to the other man's questioning look, "I do not care whether she survives or not; the bodyguard is already a rotting corpse in his cell."

A faint frown appeared on the younger man's face. "And do you truly think that the elvenking will mistake a dead body for anything but a _dead body_?" he put the question forward in the manner one would while talking to a young child.

Saonn shot him a furious look. "And just what would you know of elves and ransoms?" he demanded, his voice turning into a dangerous growl.

Kalarith met the challenge with a tone equally matched to the other's in mutual and suppressed anger. "Only this; for two years we have hidden the prisoners, threatened them, tortured them. In all of that time has _any_ of the demands been complied with? Not a _bloody_ one. Even when you sent hair or teeth to them as token. Its no secret to me why the Necromancer wanted them. He wants to capture all of Mirkwood, and doesn't seem to realize that the pretty elves love their dank little forest far too much to give it up even in exchange for their life of their queen. And you, like a fool, think that their king comes to agree to the terms he previously spat in our faces for two winters? You wouldn't see a trap if it was a foot in front of you."

Saonn clenched his teeth. "You dare call me a fool, _boy_!"

"I'm not going to die alongside you, Saonn." Kalarith spat. "I call all who would a fool."

Again, Saonn had to restrain himself from drawing his scimitar and slaying the impudent youngster where he stood. Partly what held him back was his self-preservation; he _feared_ Kalarith because the younger man had a fair chance at killing him should they fight; and partly because he knew the assassin was too useful to be wasted. So he held his peace and simply sat back, seething.

 _Patience,_ the leader told himself, _in due time you will have your revenge, just wait a little while longer…_

"I don't plan on waiting around long enough for the elvenking's armies to massacre us," Saonn explained with forced patience. "So make yourself useful and call the men together: we are leaving tonight while it's still dark while we are still able to escape with our heads intact."

 _I have had enough of your games, Dark One,_ he thought, _you will regret squandering my service, be it today or tomorrow._

"Then I will make them ready to return to Harad." the assassin nodded, then paused. "Ghaskh will try to kill us," Kalarith added, almost as an afterthought.

The mercenary leader smiled coldly. "Then you know what to do to any who get in our path." he replied, rising and picking up a long curved blade where it rested on the pedestal beside the iron key ring. The assassin opposite seemed to carry only one weapon in view; a long ceremonial dagger, it's hilt of silver studded with tiny white gems that seemed to glow with an inner light, the sharp blade of priceless mithril.

Saonn could not resist eying it greedily. It was beautiful, but there was no mistaking; it was a weapon crafted to slay. He had coveted it for a long while now. Rumor was that it had come from the elvenqueen's person and given to the assassin as a gift for his services, whereas Saonn and his men had received nothing. Kalarith was the Dark Lord's pet; whereas they were only puppets to be used without reserved.

The wall groaned.

Saonn blinked, and glanced to his left where the sound seemed to come from. At first he could see nothing amiss - the wall looked as ordinary as it ever had been. But as he watched one of the stones moved, sliding forward with a low groan, revealing a cramped crawl-space behind, and a dirty little face peeked out at the two stunned men.

It was the face of a child, a mere babe - starved, and hollow. There were several red claw marks along one hollow cheek, the bones of which protruded sharply. Beneath the streaks of grime and blood it's skin was white as snow - ghostly, sickly pale, like one carved out of marble; untouched by the light of day.

The child took one look into the room and immediately scrambled back for the tunnel.

Kalarith shot forward and seized one of the child's ankles, hauling it back. The child kicked and started screaming, pummelling the assassin with tiny fists, however useless and futile the actions were against a fully grown man. Kalarith grunted beneath the blows. He grabbed the baby's arms and pinned them to his sides, ignoring the angry shrieks that seemed to grow steadily in volume.

The child responded by biting the assassin's fingers with sharp teeth. Kalarith cursed and backhanded him sharply, slamming the hilt of the dagger across the child's face. Blood spattered from the child's nose as his head jerked to the right from the force of the blow. He gave a small gasp and squirmed, trying to wrench free and run away as the assassin's nails dug into the tender skin of his forearm, leaving behind angry red marks.

"Hold still, you little bitch's spawn, this will soon be over," Kalarith growled. He drew the mithril knife and slipped it under the baby's chin, pressing upward. "Little maggot," he whispered. "If I had only known of you sooner, I would have fed you to the orcs. Your blood and flesh would have appeased them greatly."

The child snapped again at Kalarith's fingers. Kalarith snarled, flipping the dagger in his hand and using the hilt to knock the child unconscious with a quick blow from the hilt. The tiny body stopped struggling and went limp, blood dribbling from the cut under his chin. At the same time his tangled red hair shifted, revealing a delicately pointed ear.

"Damnation," the assassin swore.

Saonn agreed though he was still speechless, trying to come to terms with the fact that there was an elven child in Khazad Dur. The only explanation was that the elvenqueen had given birth to it. "How come I was not told of this?" He demanded silently. More importantly, why hadn't he been informed of the secret tunnels?

Kalarith nodded toward the hidden door in the wall. "This fortress was constructed by dwarves, presumably sometime during the second age," he elaborated, frowning.

"You _knew_ about these tunnels?" Saonn hissed.

The assassin shook his head. "I did not. Nor was I aware that there was _that_ ," his arms tightened around the baby, "roaming."

The Haradrim pulled himself back together and appraised the child silently. This… this was good. This was leverage. A last chance. Elves took care of their kin but were they not especially protective of their young offspring? Thranduil might be willing to risk his mate, but what about his child?

Screams suddenly started down in the lower passageways and the sound of metal clashing upon metal could be clearly heard. Saonn swore and rushed out. It was total chaos in the corridor. Orcs pushed and shoved, howling and snarling with weapons in their hands as they rushed to get away from whatever was chasing them. Two of the smaller orcs scrambled past them, babbling loudly in their coarse speech and shoving one another to move faster.

"What is going on!?" he shouted, angry at the disturbance. "Go back to your posts, cowardly maggots, or I will remove your heads from your miserably shoulders…" he trailed off suddenly, nearly colliding with another dark-skinned man in a gray robe who came stumbling down the corridor; one of the other mercenaries.

"Master," the man panted. Blood dripped from a long cut on his forehead. "Th-they're," he doubled over, coughing, blood spurting from between his lips as he gasped for air.

"They _who_?" Saonn shouted, grabbing the unfortunate Man by his shoulders and shaking. "What the damnation is going on? Speak now!"

The Man's lips moved but no sound came out. He coughed and made another attempt, this time managing to rasp out the next few words. "Th-the elves… Master; they've-"- _cough_ -"-they've come!"

He collapsed.

Saonn was livid now. As if he didn't have enough problems on his plate, now add an assault on the fortress to that list! With another oath he stepped dispassionately over the dying man and approached the second mercenary who stood silently nearby. "Explain!" he commanded.

"We were patrolling the lower levels when we came upon the bodies of the guards, slaughtered. Naskh brought his soldiers together and started a search when they were attacked by… five warriors, perhaps, it was too dark to see clearly. Thirty of our own are dead."

"Thirty," Saonn repeated dumbly, "Five simple elves against thirty orc and the elves are the ones who survived?"

The man grimaced. "They fight like demons."

"They are not demons!" Saonn growled. "They are flesh, they bleed - if they bleed, then they can be killed like any mortal man. How did they get into the fortress?" He was willing to bet any amount of money on the blasted tunnels he had been unaware existed until now.

"We have no idea-"

The man's body suddenly jerked, his eyes growing wide. Blood sputtered from his mouth and he started hacking and coughing. Then he fell to his knees at Saonn's feet, giving the mercenary a clear look at the feathered arrow protruding from his back.

Saonn gaped, staring at the figure standing at the other end of the hallway. A figure, hooded in dark green, a bow in hand and a full quiver strapped to their back. Two other figures joined the first one, each identically cloaked and each moving without a sound.

Saonn had just enough time for one frantic shout of alarm before the whisper of a cloak fluttered behind him and he felt the sharp blade of a dagger viciously slice across his throat. Blood bubbled from the cut and his mouth as Saonn gasped, choking on his own blood. Spots danced in his vision and he met a pair of blazing silvery-blue eyes before the darkness sent him spiraling forever into the abyss of oblivion.

He knew one thing, though.

Kalarith and the child were gone.

.

 ** _(the rest of the chapter will be posted ASAP)_ Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to review anyway, though feel just as free to wait if you want.**


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